


Mark me, bless me

by tyelkormofuckyou



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:53:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28830720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyelkormofuckyou/pseuds/tyelkormofuckyou
Summary: Five times Celegorm got a tattoo, and one time when he tattooed someone else.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Fëanor | Curufinwë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë/Curufin | Curufinwë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë/Oromë
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Mark me, bless me

**Author's Note:**

> Nielíqui was a daughter of Oromë in the early version, but I made her a Maia of the Hunt.

** 1. **

“Do you really want to do this?”

“Yes.”

Blood trickled down Tyelkormo’s broad chest as skin broke. He didn’t make a sound; he wouldn’t, when this was his dream.

The wound wasn’t very deep, but deep enough. The Maia’s big pupils sometimes wandered up, to look at Tyelkormo’s face, only to find a smile, sometimes through a bitten lip.

“Why did you choose this one?”

Tyelkormo wanted to shrug, but remembered that there’s a sharp piece of metal digging into his breast.

“It’s a good symbol. It’s important. Life, death and rebirth, that’s how the Hunt is, aye?”

“Yeah,” the Maia smirked, looking up, and whispering. “Lord Oromë likes this one.”

Tyelkormo barked a laugh.

“Aye, he does.”

Oromë’s pupils narrowed in amusement.

The Maia raised a lit branch and charred his creation, then deepened it with the blade again, and finally reached for the pigment.

It burned, the ink and the ash in the fresh wound, and it hurt when clever fingers started rubbing it in. The pattern wasn’t visible now, that his skin was dirty.

The Maia chanted some primitive song, adding more of the dark mash. Tyelkormo didn’t understand the words, but knew it’s for the wound not to heal quickly, leaving no mark. “Here you go.”

 **“Fellow hunters, children of the wilderness, Maiar and Eldar!”** Lord Oromë spoke. **“Welcome this man, who’ll now become one of us. I’ll bless him, as my follower and my friend alike.”**

Tyelkormo’s eyes twinkled – maybe those were even tears?

Oromë gestured at him to come closer. He knew what to do. He took off his boots, pants and underwear, removed the feathers from his hair and unbraided it. Oromë stood up.

**“Tyelkormo, do you desire to become one with the wilderness?”**

“I do, my Lord.”

**“Do you wish to be hunter and prey, to honor the greatest Laws?”**

“I do, my Lord.”

**“Do you promise to honor those who give you their flesh so you can live?”**

“I do, my Lord.”

**“Do you accept yourself as a part of the world, your body one with Arda, your spirit one with the Allparent?”**

“I do, my Lord.”

Oromë slit his wrist with a big knife. A fountain of blood, shining as if it was liquid light, gushed onto Tyelkormo’s face.

**“Drink it, little one.”**

Tyelkormo pressed his lips to the deep, narrow wound. As the blood spouted into his mouth, he felt sudden euphoria, strength, joy, …

Oromë swiftly took his hand away.

**“I bless you. May your arrow be swift and hit the target, may your spear be strong in your hand, may your teeth and nails be sharp. Behold now Turcafinwë Tyelkormo, son of Nerdanel and Fëanáro, our brother.”**

He helped Tyelkormo get up. The croud cheered and yodelled as the young hunter stood there, naked, his lips dripping with divine blood, the sharp pain of the triskele on his right breast.

** 2. **

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake! You’re asking me for the third time!”

“I just wanted to make s-“ Tyelkormo’s explanation was cut off as Nielíqui’s lips covered his. Her hands quickly made it to the straps in front of his breeches, and he soon stood bare in front of her, as her skirt fell off as well.

“Lie down,” she breathed. He did. The blood thumped in their veins.

He was young, younger even than his father when he’d wed Nerdanel, but his muscles were already visible and his chest even broader than when Oromë blessed him for the first time. Most ellyn his age wouldn’t kiss a maiden yet, and none would lay with one, not before marriage; but Oromë’s party was different. The Huntsman and his Wife were fertility deities, and none would stop them from sharing the bliss of a bodily union between many. Which is why Tyelkormo was here now, with a Maia, no less, on top of him.

It was so good he almost cried. The kisses were hot and the touch burned, even though they weren’t in love – but he trusted her, and she was the first to receive his seed.

“I’m impressed,” Nielíqui laughed. “Most virgin boys can’t hold it that long.”

He tasted her later, and gave the pleasure and bliss back.

“You know I won’t be pregnant,” she laughed afterwards, as they laid on the soft moss. “But congratulations. I feel your life in me.”

“Really?”

“I’m a Maia, dummy. I do.”

They laid in silence for some time.

“You have a pretty dick, for an Elda.”

“What do you mean, for an Elda?!” He laughed and growled, and they did it again.

_____

“My Lord, he’s a strong, fertile man. He gave me his seed years ago, and not me only. He did lay with many women and men, and others too.”

**“Did you, Tyelkormo?”**

“I did, my Lord. Please, I’m ready to be marked again. I want to. It’s important to me.”

**“Very well. Nielíqui, did you prepare the pigment?”**

“I did, my Lord.”

She laid the bowl nearby, bowed and walked away. Oromë turned his gaze to Tyelkormo.

 **“** **Nielíqui is not skilled with ink and blood. Would you like Tilion to do it?”** A smile danced on Oromë’s lips. **“O** **r maybe… someone else?”**

“Who else could do it, my Lord?” breathed Tyelkormo.

Oromë’s smile was sensual and meaningful. Tyelkormo slid to his knees and touched the Huntsman’s foot. Oromë knelt beside him.

**“My dearest boy.”**

Tyelkormo looked up, even though he was afraid to do so. He met the yellow-green, well-known gaze, and melted.

The knife cut his bare hip swiftly, curling the pattern on the loin, and it hurt. Warm blood trickled down, and he was sensitive there, and he cried as his Lord’s lips were hot on his skin. He felt small, smaller than on his first time so long ago, and the wound burned.

“My Lord… Let me offer myself to you…”

 **“You know this symbol is sacred,”** Oromë whispered. **“Turn inwards and you shall find me, grow outwards and bloom. It is old.”**

Tyelkormo cried again as the knife cut a spiral into his right hip, and blood trickled, and Oromë kissed him.

** 3. **

“Congratulations, you little fucker!” Tilion raised his horn of wine and everyone cheered. “Here’s to Tyelko on learning his first kelvarin language! Talk to your dog, won’t you, now?”

“I will!” replied Tyelkormo, the sound a bark. The hunters laughed.

“Wanna mark it?” Tilion bared his thigh, the wavy stripe of ink on his skin accompanied by a row of scar dots. “I have forty-three now, wonder if you’ll surpass me,” he winked.

“Sure!” Tyelkormo took off his pants to bare his own left thigh, accompanied by his friends’ whistles. Tilion took out his knife. His movement was swift and sure. He chanted the song carelessly and smacked Tyelkormo’s butt at the end. “Wanna fuck over it?”

Tyelkormo let out a croaking laugh. “Only if I’ll top.”

“Look at him, everyone!” Tilion dramatically threw his hands up in the air. “He’s so spoiled now! Tyelko, my dearest, you know how I treasure Eldarin butts…”

“I’ve been topped by the best of tops, I wouldn’t feel you even if you changed your size in the middle, as you like to do,” Tyelkormo snorted playfully. The hunters whistled and cackled. Tilion growled.

 **“Well thank you, my dear,”** Oromë chuckled. **“Tilion, by all means, if you feel neglected, you may join us tonight. Dear friends, if you wish to feel pleasure now, you may.”** He put is empty horn cup down. **“Tyelkormo, come.”**

Tyelkormo eagerly straddled the Vala’s dark hips, and felt no pain this time at all.

**4.**

**“You’re sad.”** Oromë sat down, next to Tyelkormo, staring at him.

“I am.”

**“She’ll come back soon.”**

“I know.”

He still saw the huntress’ bloody body before his eyes, as her fëa fled to Mandos.

**“It made you sad, still.”**

“I remembered my grandmother.”

They sat in silence for a while.

**“You know… maybe you’d like to honor her. On your skin. Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”**

Tyelkormo swallowed hard.

“It would. Do it, please.”

The black stripes around his left forearm – one thick, one thin – were marks of loss and sadness, and still complimented his muscular hands. Turcafinwë, he was, with Míriel’s silver hair.

** 5. **

“Atar.”

Turcafinwë stood in the door of his father’s cabin. Fëanáro lifted his gaze from a parchment.

“Turco?”

“Atar, I want you to do something for me.” Turcafinwë swallowed hard and approached Fëanáro, feeling smaller, as always in his father’s presence. He heard the rigging moaning outside, and the gentle waves, calm for once.

Fëanáro laid down his quill.

“What do you wish for, dearest boy?”

“I-…” Turcafinwë took a breath. “I want you to mark me and bless me.” He looked up, to meet the silver gaze. ‘I… I know you did, when I was a child, but- this is different.”

Fëanáro’s face softened.

“Turco, my child… I’m flattered and honored. I’ll do anything you ask of me, just say the word.”

Turcafinwë looked down. His silver eyelashes threw long shadows on his cheeks.

He took out his knife and passed it to his father. Fëanáro took hold of the hilt.

Turcafinwë took off his clothes.

“You’re beautiful, my silver jewel.” Fëanáro tenderly stroked his cheekbone, his eyes wandering over his son’s muscles. “You’re fairer than any statue. You are a work of art, my boy…”

“You created me,” breathed Turcafinwë and offered Fëanáro his thick right arm, reaching for a jar of pigment he took with him. “Please bless me.”

Fëanáro knew what to do. His movement was swift and precise, countless sketches he’d done in his life left him with a steady hand. The cut was deep enough for Turcafinwë’s voice to crack on the Song twice.

Warm blood trickled down his arm, his father’s clever fingers rubbing the pigment into the wounded bicep, _I love you, son, I bless you, my boy_ whispered among the flickering lights, and _I love you too, atto_ as well.

** 6. **

“Curvo.”

Silence.

“Curvo, look at me.”

Curufinwë was red-eyed and snotty and of course, he’d been crying.

“Go away. I wish not to live. I can’t, please, not without him…”

Turcafinwë heard this for the fiftieth time now, and Curvo seemed to have the lacrimal glands of Nienna. All he did nowadays was cry. He cried more than Maglor, and didn’t eat almost at all.

“I don’t know what we’ll do. But he wouldn’t want you to spend your days weeping. He’s with us, always.”

“Maybe he’s with you!” Curufinwë sniffled. “I can’t feel him…!” Tears started flowing down his face again. “He blessed you, maybe you can… I can’t live without him!”

“Hey. Curvo. Listen to me.” Turcafinwë grabbed Curufinwë’s face and forced him to look in his eyes. “He’s with us, always. In our flesh, in our fëar. In you. Manwë’s balls, you even look like him.”

Curufinwë sniffled again. They sat in silence for a while.

“I want you… to do the same to me. What he did to you.”

Turcafinwë furrowed. “Remember that you can’t undo it.”

Curufinwë let out a humorless laugh. “As if I wanted to ever undo something like that. As if I wanted anything else than be one with him, and for him to live still.”

“Fair.” Turcafinwë took out his knife. “Undress.”

Curufinwë did.

“Where do you want it?”

“On my head. I-…” Curufinwë brushed his hair to the right side, baring a pointed ear. “Behind it, please.”

It was quick. The star carved into Curufinwë’s skin was small, much smaller than the one on Turcafinwë’s arm, and still Curufinwë felt bliss as a drop of blood escaped the cut.

Turcafinwë licked it off.

He didn’t know why he did it.

Curufinwë shivered.

It took very little pigment to cover the small wound, and it shouldn’t have taken that long. But Turcafinwë did it slow, and Curufinwë felt a gentle brush of a tongue on the pointed tip of his ear, and the warm breath of the Song tickled his skin.

He closed his eyes, and sought for Turcafinwë’s hand, guiding it to slide over his body.

Turcafinwë shivered.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe Celegorm had more tattoos later, to honor his passing friends and relatives. For now - these five.


End file.
